TSM
by S.M. Martin
Summary: Everyone thought that before Harry Potter graduated, Voldemort would be vanquished. Everyone thought that Draco Malfoy would turn out just like his father. Everyone thought that Ginny Weasley would never be important. Everyone was wrong.


  
  
  
  
Title: The Solitaire Mystery  
  
Subtitle: Play It Again   
  
Rating: R  
  
Disclaimer: Draco, Harry, Ginny and the rest of the characters belong to JK Rowling. The quote belongs to Fiona Apple.  
  
Author's Note: This takes place three years after Harry, Draco, etc. graduated Hogwarts. Parts of this were first put out as 'Where The Streets Have No Name'....I rewrote, added to it, and switched stuff around and got this. It's infinitely better, but with a very different plot than I started out with. Still Bomber!Draco, of course.  
A Warning: The rating is there for a reason; this story is about adults. Adults (if you hadn't noticed) cuss, have sex, kill one another, etc. If you don't like the story, then bully for you. In my opinion, the only thing more idiotic than flames are authors who come up with cute things to say about the flames, as though they are actually fire. In my universe, flames will be used to show the one digit I.Q. of the flamer. And, hey, I'll mentally pummel all flamers with Casaba melons. In summery: Readers wanted. Fools need not apply.  
  
Chapter One  
Play It Again  
"Heaven help me for the way I am - Save me from these evil deeds before I get them done- I know tomorrow brings the consequence at hand- But I keep living this day like the next will never come."  
  
  
London, England  
  
Draco Malfoy sipped his coffee behind his open newspaper. It was 'The Daily Prophet', and he really shouldn't have it in the Muggle world, but it was the only thing he had on him; besides, he felt better when his face was covered, even though he had used glamours to make his hair and eyes brown. Brown. Such a dull color. His trademark sneer flared up as his eyes found an article about himself. He skimmed it - nothing new. They just kept printing the same information about his history, his family background, his crimes and what to do if he was spotted. The picture that accompanied it was truly a slap in the face. Or maybe it just looked like he was slapped in the face. . . He was glairing ominously out of the paper, his arms were folded and his eyebrows were arched. Ever now and again he would glance back and forth uneasily. Lovely. Now they were portraying him as a common sociopath. And where in God's name had they found a photo like that?   
  
He folded the paper to the front page and looked up. A woman of about thirty was unabashedly ogling at him. She had her head propped up on her hand. A lock of hair was twirling around one finger. When she saw him look up she giggled and winked. Draco closed his eyes, got up, and quickly walked away. Now if that wasn't the coup de grace. He scowled as he shuffled along. Muggles. I'm reduced to attracting *Muggles*. How insulting! He hated it when this happened. Wherever he went, women were all over him. Well, of course they were, he reminded himself. He *was* a Malfoy, after all. All he wanted was a nice, respectable witch to settle down with, and have a family, yet it seemed these white picket dreams would go unrequited.   
  
He could feel his spirits start to plummet. This wasn't good. He needed to escape. Draco glanced at his watch and pondered the logistics of going to Diagon Alley. Why not? He had time, he had glamours. With a shrug, he dissaperated and appeared outside of Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions. He mulled over his past as he strolled down the street. Absently he wandered all over, exploring and browsing.  
  
He had been on the run from the Ministry for three years now. Ever since he left Hogwarts he had been a criminal. Mischief making had never been a hobby of his, yet there was something inherently fun about reeking havoc. Draco was what some called a pyromaniac. He was responsible for some of the most famous Muggle bombings of the twentieth century. To him it was a game, a hobby. It started with choosing a location. He would pick a place of importance - government importance was his personal favorite - and then he'd bomb it, and wait for the Muggles to take over. It would be all over the news, they'd show the same grainy footage of it falling over, and then they'd pin the crime on an unsuspecting fool. Then the game would begin again.  
  
Lucius had always dreamed of Draco following in his ungainly footsteps and join the Dark Lord. But Draco hated Voldemort and his whole damned movement. There was simply no sport in what they did. His father disapproved of his unusual pastime and harassed him, attempting to get him to join The Cause - until he died mysteriously, leaving his fortune to Draco and Narcissa.   
  
Someone plowed into him and jolted Draco out of his thoughts. He glanced around. His feet had lead him to Knock Turn Alley. The person swore, using an interesting vocabulary of curses, and glared up at him. He smiled wanly. Here she was - Pansy Parkinson. She didn't recognize him, of course, so he got a good look at her. She had rose to amazing status as a Death Eater- she was the youngest to ever be initiated. She was very beautiful in a cold, marble way. She had long shiny dark brown hair and icy, unforgiving blue eyes. He stuck out his hand and pulled her up. She gave him a stony look.  
  
"Watch where you're going," she spat.  
  
"I'll take your advice when you do," he drawled, before realizing this wasn't someone to tangle with.  
  
"Excuse me? Who the bloody Hell do you think you are? Do you realize who you are speaking to?" she cried.  
  
"Er-of course. Pardon me," he turned and quickly walked the other way.   
  
By the time he reached the Leaky Cauldron it was nightfall. He needed to go, he needed to leave this familiar setting, he needed to traipse off into the harsh real world. He needed a stiff drink.   
  
Draco sat at the bar, next to a man he didn't really look at. However, when he ordered his scotch on the rocks, the man looked up sharply. Draco made a mental note to loose the drawl. As Tom set the drink down in front of him, Draco looked up at the man next to him. He nearly fell out of his chair.   
  
Harry Potter eyed him suspiciously. Draco regained his composure and lifted the glass in a mock toast in Harry's direction before downing it in one fiery gulp. He rose from the bar and stepped away. Harry swiveled around in his stool.  
  
"Excuse me, sir, but can I have your name?" he asked. Draco gave a large, false smile and snapped his fingers, removing the appearance charm.  
"Why, Potter! Don't you remember me? I've remembered you all these years!" he winked cheekily before dissaperating, the sound of Harry screaming "Malfoy!" ringing in his ears.  
-------------------------------  
Kent, England  
  
Draco Malfoy appeared on an empty street. No one was around to see the famous criminal wizard stalk down the cold dark roads. Not a stir of wind broke the chilly serenity. He made his way towards downtown. Draco knew Kent well. This was his get away place. His refuge. He came here whenever he was in trouble. However, this time it was worth it. He had really one-upped Potter this time. Lying low for a few weeks was worth it. He was headed to The Broadway Hotel. A rather odd name for a hotel in England, but it was as elite a hotel you could get in these parts, and he was a regular there. Just flash a few hundreds and they bent over backwards for you. That was the one thing he had to thank Lucius for: money. Cold, hard, cash. The fortune he left behind funded Draco's eclectic hobby. He didn't need a steady job, he didn't need to worry about scrimping and pinching to make ends meet. He never really gave money a second thought. It was just there.  
  
Growing up, Draco's secret fear was that he would wind up like his father: a cruel, heartless, bitter old man who drove himself insane for want of more power. However, these days a voice in the back of Draco's mind would remind him that in many ways he *was* like his father-he killed innocents and gave no regard to emotion. But, he always argued, he didn't enjoy seeing the innocent die. That's not what he enjoyed doing, that wasn't the fun part. The fun part was watching the bricks and the mortar come crashing down, the gust of wind it caused against his cheeks. Feeling the ground tremble beneath his feet and knowing he caused it. It gave him such an unmatched thrill. It was a hobby. It was *fun*.  
  
Ah, here we are. He opened the glass doors of the fancy hotel and sauntered up to the main desk. A chipper young man in a burgundy uniform looked up at him.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"I need the best suite you have available. Now."  
  
"Er-name, sir?" Draco pulled out his wallet and held up one of many fake identifications.  
  
"Mr. Conway, of course. Right this way," the man led Draco to the elevator and got off on the top floor. He unlocked the door to what could pass for a small apartment. Draco looked around, nodded and slipped a folded hundred pound note in the man's breast pocket.  
  
"Oh, thank you, sir. If there is anything we can get you, don't hesitate to ask, sir."  
  
"I won't," replied Draco. The man gave an odd little bow, as though unsure what to do, and left quickly.  
  
  
Draco found the bedroom and flopped on the bed, falling asleep in his clothes.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------  
  
The next day he decided that he needed to do some serious thinking and therefore needed to go for a walk. It was becoming a bit of a ritual with him; have a problem, go for a walk. So he set off that afternoon with no real destination, just soaking up the scenery. It was a crisp, clear autumn day. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot and the sun attempted valiantly to warm the chilled Earth. He wandered down side streets and walked through neighborhoods. It was very quaint here; everything was old fashioned. He turned down an alleyway and a sign caught his eye - Art Gallery Upstairs. Underneath was a large arrow pointing up an outdoor stairway leading to the upper level of a craftsman style house. The house was white with dark green trim, and huge. It would most likely cause a lot of damage to the rest of the neighborhood if it were blown up, due to sheer size.  
  
"God," he muttered, climbing the stairs, "I need to start stamp collecting."   
  
He entered the room and found that it was large, with Whitewashed walls covered in framed paintings. He wandered around, looking at them all. There were still lifes, portraits, and in a shadowy corner, one of a castle - Hogwarts castle. Draco stood there and gaped.  
  
No doubt about it - there was Gryffindor Tower, Dumbledore's study, even the lake, complete with the giant squid.  
  
"That's a popular one. I don't really know why. It's just a castle," came a voice from behind him. He whirled around. A girl stood there, leaning against the doorway.  
  
"You're the artist?" he asked. She nodded. "Well, it's really well done. I- where is that castle?" The girl shifted her weight and looked mildly disappointed.  
  
"It's in southern Scotland. It's a. . .private school." she said, with a wistful smile. He studied her intently. She had to be a witch to see Hogwarts in its true form, but why wasn't she screaming bloody murder? Ah. He was standing in the shadows. She couldn't see his face. He tried to figure out if he knew her. She was about his age; she had long red hair, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and brown eyes. The only girl he ever knew with hair *that* coppery was-  
  
"Ginny," he said weakly.  
  
She cocked her head to the side and looked at him quizzically. He unconsciously took a step forward, stepping out of the shadows. Her eyebrows shoot up and a mixture of horror, shock and amazement flashed across her face.  
  
  
"Malfoy! What are you doing here?" she exclaimed.  
  
  
"Learning to dance the samba. I hear it's all the rage," he deadpanned. Ginny just gaped at him, looking like she had seen a ghost. And, he reflected, in a way she had - a ghost of her past. Draco's eyes moved from her to the doorway. He estimated about five minuets before the Ministry was all over. He could probably just run for it, but then she could use the body bind... She followed his gaze, as well as his thought process.  
  
  
"No! Don't leave. I won't report you to the...Ministry," she looked as shocked as he did that she had said this.  
  
  
"Why?"   
  
  
"I don't know," she replied honestly. Draco raised his eyebrows.  
  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
  
"Yes. . .so. . . how are you?" she asked, actually looking interested.  
  
  
"About as good as could be expected, all things considered," he replied flippantly.  
  
  
"Aren't you supposed to be on the run or something?"   
  
"I am on the run, Weasley. It's just generally not part of the plan to run into the enemy while you're running." he said, giving her a sour look.  
  
"And some plan that must be, too, if it involves fleeing to fifty miles from where you were last spotted and taking impromptu side stops at art galleries." she had something on her face that Draco sorely wanted to describe as a smirk, but Ginny didn't *ever, smirk. It wasn't a Weasley thing to do. He sighed.  
  
"About that - you're a painter now?" he really wanted to change the subject. No, scratch that. He wanted to get the Hell out of there. For some reason Ginny cracked up laughing.  
  
"Oh, well spotted. There's no pulling the wool over your eyes, is there? Oh, I see, you're wowing me with those evil mastermind reflexes. Tell me, what tipped you off?" she sobered slightly when she caught sight of him glowering at her. "I'm sorry, this is just a little surreal. A world famous criminal is standing here making small talk with me about my paintings."  
  
"Well, I was *going* to say you were quite talented, but I won't, if it will make you feel better." Draco replied coldly. He wasn't used to other people using his number one weapon: sarcasm. It was rather unnerving. They stared at each other for a few minuets before he shook his head.  
  
"I need to go." he walked quickly over to the door. Just before he left he paused and plucked a business card out of the holder on a table, and winked at her. Then he was gone. Ginny ran over to the window and watched him stroll down the ally.  
  
"He likes my work. . ."  
  
-----------Flashback: Ginny's Sixth Year-----------  
  
Sixteen-year-old Ginny Weasley hurried down the dark corridor, clutching the note in her hand. The beautiful, wonderful note. A declaration of love from her boyfriend, Harry Potter. He had asked her to meet him on the astronomy deck, which was rather clichéd for their purposes, but then Harry wasn't the supremely romantic type. She glanced over her shoulder as she hurried along, making sure no one had seen her leave and was following her. Suddenly she ran into a form and went sprawling on the ground, pulling the person down with her.   
  
She blinked, dazed. The person was heavy. And warm, and. . . on top of her. She writhed in embarrassment underneath what she determined was a 'him'. Ginny could feel the person's shoulders shake with silent laughter. He raised himself slightly, and by the weak moonlight coming in down the hall she could make out a well-styled hairdo, and a face with well chiseled features. She squinted, but it was impossible to tell anything further about the boy.  
  
"Fancy meeting you here," the upper-class drawl cut through the air like a knife.  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
"However did you guess?"  
  
"Get off of me, you arse," Ginny wiggled beneath him.  
  
"Here, Weasley. I'll give you a bit of advice: if your goal is to get a guy off of you, don't create friction under him. Makes sense, no?"  
  
"Damn it all to hell, Draco. You are one sick puppy," muttered Ginny. Draco grinned.   
  
"I know."  
  
"I'll knee you in the crotch."  
  
"I'll yell 'rape'."  
  
"I'll have fun watching you explain that to Snape and McGonagall." She giggled. Draco pulled a face.  
  
"Touché," he replied, slowly sliding off of her. She got up and wrapped her arms around herself; it was much colder with out his warmth. Draco shifted his weight next to her.  
  
"Well, ah, I gotta go," She mumbled.  
  
"Harry, right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Yes, I better return to patrolling the corridor for ickle sixth years hurrying off to clandestine meetings with their boyfriends. Tottle off, little sixth year." Ginny thwacked him on the arm as she walked by.  
  
"Happy hunting."  
  
"Happy shagging."  
  
-------Fast Forward - Ginny's Seventh Year------  
  
Seventeen-year-old Ginny Weasley strolled into the Great Hall and sat down at the Gryffindor table next to two of her friends, Abby and Samantha. The two looked up to say hello and went back to their previous conversation. Ginny was buttering a slice of toast when the Owl Post came in. Hedwig swooped down and dropped a letter in front of her. Ginny felt the familiar adrenaline pumping through her veins. She got a letter from Harry! He had been her boyfriend since her sixth year, but he mere sound of his name still made her blush. She reached for the envelope and tore it open, all thoughts of toast forgotten. It read:  
  
Ginny-  
Hey, honey. How's are you? God, I miss you! How are your studies going? How did you do on that Divination test you were stressed about? I'm doing as well as can be expected. Auror training is truly hellish. I get up with the sun and go to sleep long after it sets. I had no idea being an Auror required this kind of stamina. I'm shocked that my mother could do this, as I barely can. However, your letters certainly brighten up my otherwise dreary day (hint, hint). I sometimes think that the only way I get through the day is knowing that somewhere someone cares about me. Are you going home for the holiday? For some strange reason, we get a vacation from up here. Your mum invited me to come to your house since your brothers all will be there. I hope that's all right with you. I can't wait to see you again. I better wrap this up. Lupin and Sirius have owled me, and they send their love. So do I. I love you, Ginny. Always remember that.  
Harry  
  
Ginny reread the letter a few times before setting it down on the table and giving an uncertain smile. Sometimes she wondered if she was doing the right thing, being in such an intense relationship at such a young age. She knew that Harry cared about her deeply, and she cared for him, yet she doubted either of them really knew what love was. He was so sweet to her, and she knew that it would kill him if she broke it off. And *she* didn't want to break it off. . .did she? Suddenly Abby got her attention by spitting out a mouthful of pumpkin juice. Well, that wasn't her intent, but it worked.  
  
"What's the matter?" Ginny and Samantha asked at the same time.  
  
Wordlessly, Abby handed her copy of that morning's Daily Prophet to Samantha, who gasped and handed it to Ginny. Ginny gasped, too, when she got a look at the front page. A picture of Draco Malfoy graced the front of it. The picture had been taken last year, when he attended Hogwarts. He was wearing his impeccably tailored school robes, and his veela-blond hair was slicked to the side, in a ruler straight part over his left eye. His arms were crossed, and he was giving the camera his trademark smirk.  
  
Ginny's eyes moved to the article. It explained that he had bombed some important Muggle building in America and was on the run from The Ministry. She looked up at her two friends who were reading the article in another copy. They both looked stricken.  
  
"Oh, Draco," murmured Ginny. Abby gave her a funny look.   
  
"Weren't you, like, friends with him or something?" she asked.  
  
"No. No! I - I" she faltered. "No, we weren't friends. I just sort of got to know him, that's all." she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Abby turned back to the other copy of The Daily Prophet. Ginny gave the picture a remorseful look. She slowly got up and wandered up to the Gryffindor Tower, and then to her dormitory. Rummaging around in her trunk, she found a pair of scissors and carefully cut out the article and picture. She pursed her lips and ran her fingers over the photo before tucking it in her trunk with the scissors.  
  
-----------End Flashback-----------  
  
Draco stormed down the quiet suburban street in a fit of rage, his thoughts in turmoil. 'What happened back there? I just conversed with a Weasley. I just *complimented* a Weasley. Where are my morals? If Lucius was alive, he would be rolling over in his grave.' Draco paused mid step. 'Wait. What? Oh, lovely. Now I'm going off my rocker. How perfectly delightful.' He sighed and leaned back against a tree, closing his eyes. There was really only one word that could sum this situation up.  
"Fuck."  
  
  
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***  
  
  
"Mind if I smoke?" asked Harry Potter. Cho Chang rolled her brown eyes.   
  
"I'd prefer it if you didn't, Harry. The second hand smoke does gross things to your skin." Harry gave her a withering look. He pulled a silver cigarette case out of his pocket and ran a finger over the inscription - 'Harry James Potter', before taking out one of the of white cylinders. He cupped his hand around a lighter and took a deep drag. Cho sighed.  
  
"Well, Chang? Do you have anything to report? Or was this little visit just to say 'hello'?" He asked. Cho snorted.  
  
"As much as you'd like for it to be the latter, I'm here on business only."  
  
"Very well. Hit me." The Minister leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on his desk. Cho looked quite disgruntled.  
  
"Didn't I ask you to not smoke?" she asked narrowing her eyes dangerously. Harry, never loosing his charming expression, put his feet on the ground and leaned across his desk at her. He slowly parted his lips and he blew a mouthful of smoke out at her. His lips curved into a smile and he resumed his position. Cho coughed and waved her hand in front of her face.  
  
"You're a rat bastard, Potter." She spat.  
  
"And you're a cheap hussy, Chang. Is there a point?" he paused and smiled at her glare, "I'm the Minister of Magic and you're the head honcho over in the Unspeakable's office. We can afford to be crude."  
  
"I am not a cheap hussy," she glowered.  
  
"Of course you're not," he replied, eyeing her clothes, or lack there of. "Tell me, Chang - do those robes meet the office dress codes?" Cho looked down at the tight fitting blue robes that showed a lot of cleavage and left little to the imagination. She flushed.  
  
"Point made. At least I don't surround myself with this Muggle crap," she waved her hand around his office, indicating the large television on the wall and the radio in the corner. Together it looked like a soccer game on the telly was being played to a Mozart piece. "And what are you wearing? You look ridiculous." Harry's gaze moved from Cho to his gunmetal suit and back up to Cho.  
  
"It's called an Italian suit. In the Muggle world it costs the equivalent of about five hundred galleons." Cho looked unimpressed. Harry sighed. "Is there a purpose to this? I'm hoping you have something to tell me?"   
  
Cho got up and walked around the desk to stand behind Harry. She rested her hands on his shoulders, then slid them down his muscular chest, halting at his belt. She leaned down brushed her lips by his ear.  
  
"The water cooler on the fourth floor needs to be refilled," she whispered, before straightening and quickly sauntering out of his office. Harry stared after her with a bemused expression. How typical.  
  
The voice of his secretary, Madeline, suddenly floated through the room. "Your meeting with Mr. Somers is scheduled for right now, Mr. Potter. Are you planning on going?"  
  
"I'll be right there, Miss. . .what was your last name?" He called. A noise of frustrated fury came as a reply.  
  
"I've been your secretary for the past nine months, you ingrate!" she exclaimed in disgust.  
  
"Right," Harry got up and walked out to Madeline's desk. He gave her an expectant look.  
  
"Klink," she grumbled.  
  
"There. Miss Klink. That wasn't so hard, was it?" he pointedly ignored her sour look as he left.   
  
He apparated to The Nines, the bar he was meeting Sirius at this week. Sirius was already there. He was still 'on the run' from the Ministry, but they had long since given up looking for him. He now worked in a bar in North London and went by the name Jack Somers (Harry never really understood why). Sirius looked up and waved him over. Harry made his way across the smoke filled room and sat across from him in the booth.  
  
"Harry! Is that a new suit?"  
  
"Hullo, Sirius. Yes, it is. I got it. . ." he trailed off awkwardly. Sirius was the only person who made Harry feel ashamed about his lifestyle of stealing, cheating and gambling. In a way Harry was pleased because he knew it meant his godfather cared, but in a way it made him feel like he was back in his fifth year being watched over by everyone. Sirius gave him a wan smile. Harry hurriedly changed the subject.  
  
"So how are things on the romance front? Who are you dating these days? Carole? No, never mind, that ended last month. Don't tell me, I know it. Penny? No, damn, she was before Carole. . ." he sighed. "Who are you dating these days?"  
  
Sirius laughed. "It's Lauren, actually. And it's going fine."  
  
"Lauren. I've never heard you mention her." Sirius didn't meet his eye. Harry raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Oh, Sirius, she *is* a Muggle, isn't she? Isn't she?"  
  
"Er - no?" Sirius replied hesitantly. Harry shook his head, holding his hands up in defeat.  
  
"Hey, it's your funeral, Mr. Sommers. How's work?"  
  
"Oh, the usual: I polish glasses, depressed singles pour their hearts out to me. I get them drunk and let them drive home. . ."  
  
"And I thought my job was interesting."  
  
Sirius opened his mouth to reply when two men stepped inside the dive. Harry's eyes widened he saw the tip of a gun from under one of the men's trench coats. Its owner scanned the crowd, before finding Harry. His hand slid under the coat.   
  
"Shit," Harry muttered. Then louder, "Everybody hit the floor!" he jumped up and pulled his handgun out of his shoulder holster. All around him, Muggles were screaming and scrambling under tables.   
  
One of the men aimed a Glock at Harry. He dove behind the bar just in time; the man's bullets hit bottles of gin, causing them to shatter over Harry's head. Harry squatted behind the bar for a moment before jumping to the side and started firing in the general direction of the assassins. Then in one quick movement he dropped back down, cursing the fact his wand wasn't on him. He could tell from the muffled sound that the guns had silencers on them. Who where these men? More over, who had he pissed badly enough to cause this? Shards of glass rained down on him, nicking his skin.   
  
"Bloody bastards," he muttered.  
  
He jumped up again and squinted, taking aim, and shot one of the men in the shoulder. Harry dove back behind the counter. The man who was still standing was riddling the bar with bullets. Harry could feel the wood vibrate every time took a hit. It wasn't going to last much longer. He took a deep breath and jumped back out. He started shooting again, and got the remaining man in the leg. He walked over to him and stood there for a moment, his shotgun aimed at his head.  
  
"Who sent you?" he demanded. The man said nothing. "Who sent you?" Harry repeated.  
  
"Fuck - you." Replied the man, gasping in between the words.  
  
"No thanks. Now tell me who sent you here or I'll paint this wall with your brains. Get me?" Harry kicked the man's wounded leg, earning a scream. "Now, whatever you wanted was important enough to burst in here and interrupt all of these Muggles and their drinking, which will result in more memory charms than the mother fucking Roswell crash. Now who the hell hired you?" Harry kicked the man again.  
  
"Never," the man choked.   
  
"You leave me little alternative," sighed Harry. He looked the other way and pulled the trigger. There was a boom and a sick splattering. Harry then walked over to the man's accomplice. He was knocked out cold. Harry fished around in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone - one of the few Muggle inventions that were actually useful. He punched a number into it and waited.  
  
"Jackson."  
  
"This is Potter. We have a big mess right down the street from the office. Two idiots came in waving guns around, shot a lot of nothing; the usual. Oh, I had to kill one of them the other just injured. We need some mediwizards," Harry glanced around the restaurant, looking at the people still cowering in the corners. "There's about twenty memory charms that need to be done."  
  
"Roger that. They're on their way."  
  
Harry hung up the phone and waited while ten wizards apparated in. He saw to it that one took the assassin away and quickly left. Sirius hurried out after him. He glared at his godson.  
  
"What?"  
  
"What in god's name is happening to you, Harry?" asked Sirius, wide eyed. Harry stopped but didn't turn around.  
  
"Meaning what?"  
  
"Harry, you just killed a man! You just shot him! Splattered his head all over the place! The Harry I used to know wouldn't step on bugs! You've changed. I don't know why or how, but you've changed." Harry wouldn't look at him.  
  
"I'm doing my job, Sirius. I'm an Auror, it's my job to kill."  
  
"No it isn't. It's you job to capture. You like to kill. Admit it Harry. You've been like this ever since Ginny broke up with you. Or is that why Ginny broke up with you in the first place?"  
  
Harry turned around very slowly. "What happened between me and Ginny is none of your concern, nor is what I do. I'll see you next week. Same time, and. . .I'll get back to you about the place," with that he dissaperated, leaving Sirius standing on the street corner, shaking his head.  
  
  
  
----- ----- ----- ---- ----- ----- ----- ------ ------  
  
  
"Mmmph," Harry dipped the woman backwards onto his bed. She pulled out of the kiss briefly.  
  
"You're late," she told him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.  
  
"You don't care," he replied.  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"You never have before."  
  
"You win," Veronica Rillobard lay back on the king size bed and pulled Harry over her, letting him take her in a passionate kiss. As the famous wizard's lips trailed down over her neck, she thought about why he was here. They had met last year. She worked at the Ministry with him - Accidental Magical Reversal Squad. She was first drawn to him because of how exciting he was. He had more money than she had imagined possible; he always took her to the most chic restaurants, the most amazing dinner parties. Everywhere he went they all knew who he was, and treated him with the utmost respect - anything he wanted he got, and everyone was happy to give it. It was overwhelming after awhile, though. Sometimes she felt that some of those dashing young men at the dinner parties knew more about her boyfriend than she did. But, she reflected as he slid his hands up her shirt, sometimes it just didn't matter.  
  
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***  
  
  
  



End file.
